


RSVP

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [46]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Bliss, First Dates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-13 15:19:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7981315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos receives an invitation to a swanky tea party. Aramis is to accompany him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



Evening has come. It’s still light out, warm and balmy even with summer reluctant to move on, and Athos is reading Pratchett on the couch, with a kitten in his lap and a pleasantly cold coffee on the table at his elbow.

Aramis is already home; he’s come in some minutes ago and is now busy by the kitchen counter, reheating a slice of yesterday’s leftover lasagna. Having him home feels warm and comfortable as always, and Athos reads one of his favourite passages out loud to him, smiles in delight when that earns him an amused chuckle.

There’s a key in the front door; the door opens and closes, followed by the rustling of a jacket and the thudding of discarded shoes, and then Porthos rounds the corner to the living room, a smile on his face and a stack of mail in his hand.

“You got one of them gold-edged invitations in the mail,” he tells Athos, putting everything on the living room table. He straightens and stretches his arms above his head, revealing a sliver of skin. “I hadn’t realized it was that time of year already.”

He’s returned later than usual today, probably stopped by Elodie’s and brought her some groceries on his way home. One of these days Athos will have to tell Elodie how grateful he is to her for allowing Porthos into her life like this. Seeing Porthos so happy renders Athos almost stupid with joy, and he can tell that Aramis suffers from similar side effects.

Because Aramis is blushing for no reason over by the kitchen counter, smiling with his whole body in that irresistible way of his. He asks Porthos if he’d like a cup of tea when he joins him in front of the stove, the pair of them only mildly inconvenienced by both Tom and Santiago streaking around their ankles.

“Yeah, thank you, kitten,” Porthos says. “That’d be lovely.”

He leans in to kiss Aramis’ neck while Aramis prepares him a cup, and Athos finally puts down his book and gently nudges Howard off his lap so he can move and get at his mail. There’s indeed a gold-edged invitation amongst the letters addressed to him, and Athos smiles to himself as he reads the elegant but stilted phrasing. Then he frowns. “Blast it.”

“Blast what?” Porthos asks, joining him on the couch. He leans in to brush a kiss to Athos’ slack mouth and then manoeuvres himself under Athos’ outstretched legs. “Did they write your name wrong?”

“The Baroness d’Avon invites me and my plus-one to her tea party on Sunday,” Athos sighs, handing him the invitation. “Apparently she hadn’t realized either that it’s that time of the year already, and now expects me to jump at the drop of a hat. That is not the worst of it though - she is also entirely unaware that I have two plusses at my disposal now.”

“Ah, you know her,” Porthos says, scanning the costly square of paper with an amused little grin. “She always sends out those invitations far too late. So you take Aramis - no big deal.”

Athos can _feel_ his eyebrows fly up to meet his hairline. “I beg your pardon?”

“But you always go together to these things!” Aramis adds his mite to the conversation, visibly flustered. He’s followed Porthos to the couch, and there’s an audible sound of impact when he sets the promised cup of tea on the table, followed by the plate with his lasagna. “I wouldn’t want to take your spot.”

“You’re not takin’ my spot, I’m givin’ it to you,” Porthos points out. “It’s time we let the high and mighties know what’s goin’ on with us, don’t you think? I don’t mind sittin’ this one out. Edith never provides any desserts worth showin’ up for anyway.”

“You just want to spend your sunday with little Jasmine,” Athos drawls. “At least be honest about it.”

“That too,” Porthos admits, sheepish smile firmly in place. “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s time to properly introduce Aramis to high-society.”

“But I don’t know if I want to be properly introduced to high-society!” Aramis exclaims, looking alarmed. “You know I’m no good at these things.”

“You were wonderful the last time we took you,” Athos reminds him gently; “and I will not leave your side for even one moment, I promise.”

“So you want me to come?” Aramis asks, actually looking surprised. Sometimes Athos just can’t with him.

“Of course I want you to come,” he says, grabbing Aramis’ wrist so he can pull him closer to his side. “Do you believe I want to hide you from the outside world?”

“No, not at all,” Aramis assures him hastily. “It’s just that you’ve always taken Porthos, and now -”

“Now I am taking you,” Athos interrupts him gently. “You can help me choose a new tie for the occasion.”

Aramis perks up immediately and settles more comfortably into the couch. “Oh, I’d love that! We got a shipment of the most _beautiful_ -” He stops himself and frowns. “But what will your mother say?”

Athos blinks at him, somewhat at sea. “What has my mother got to do with it?”

“She loves Porthos!” Aramis explains, looking chagrinned. “Won’t she be disappointed when he’s not there on Sunday? I expect she gets invited to these things as well?”

“She does,” Athos confirms, “and if she wants to see Porthos, she knows where he lives. What is more, she has quite taken you into her heart as well and will enjoy this opportunity to further your acquaintance. If I am not mistaken Thomas and Evangeline will be there as well.”

Aramis’ eyes go rather round. “Your father, too?”

“Yes,” Athos says, slightly confused. “Why?”

“He finds Bertie intimidating for some strange reason,” Porthos explains, sipping his tea. “I for one never met a cuddlier Count, but that might just be me.”

“Are you the reason why Flea calls him Count Cuddle behind his back?” Athos demands. “Because she needs to be stopped before the kids pick up on it and use that title to his face the next time he accompanies my mother on a visit.”

“What are you talkin’ about, he’d love that,” Porthos grunts, picking Tom off Athos’ legs when he tries to get at the cooling lasagna on the table. “ _No_ , furball, that’s not for you.”

The kitten mewls at him and subsides, and he pets his head, leaning over Athos’ legs to take his cup off the table. “By the way, Elodie’s got her materials and is all ready to set up our amusement park.”

Athos clears his throat. “Shouldn’t she take it easy for a while longer?”

Porthos shrugs. “Are you gonna tell her? Because I’m not going to.”

“You’re ridiculous, both of you,” Aramis says, leaning back with a sigh. “Women are not as fragile as you think they are.”

“Heh, I didn’t see that attack comin’,” Porthos chuckles, squeezing Athos’ left ankle. “Did you?”

“Most certainly not,” Athos drawls, taking Aramis’ hand. “It is quite enjoyable in its novelty.”

“All I’m saying is that she knows best what she can and cannot do,” Aramis stammers, blushing to the roots of his hair. “And since Anne will be here to help her anyway -”

“She won’t have to exert herself unduly,” Athos agrees gently. “You are quite right.”

Aramis sighs again and leans into him then, closes his eyes as he rests his head on Athos’ shoulder. “Please tell me that I won’t make an utter fool of myself during that tea party on Sunday.”

“You will do splendidly,” Athos says promptly. “You are a handsome, charming and endearing person, and if, for one of those blasted strokes of fate, you should commit any social faux pas, I will distract the company by falling into the terrace fountain.”

Aramis giggles, and Porthos gives Athos’ ankle another squeeze. “If you do that I might have to come anyway. I’ve never seen you in a wet suit.”

“I will take pictures for you,” Aramis promises, sounding enchantingly happy about the prospect.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunday arrives, and with it a glaringly wonderful September morning. Athos isn’t sure he likes this. Wearing a suit is a hassle at the best of times - to be forced into one for one whole late summer afternoon might just be the end of him.

“Your face is a thing of beauty,” Porthos informs him across the breakfast table. “Shall I alert the weather gods that you’re displeased with their efforts?”

Aramis’ head promptly whips around, freshly washed hair drying into glossy waves. “Are you uncomfortable?”

_Not yet_ , Athos wants to say, but doesn’t. Because if he does, Aramis will think about nothing else for the whole afternoon, and Athos wants everything but that. He wants Aramis to enjoy their day out - the first outing so explicitly their own. Their first date.

“I am not uncomfortable,” Athos says accordingly, which is the truth after all. “I always look like this before my first cup of coffee.”

Porthos huffs in amusement and grins at him. “You can wear the pale grey linen shirt under your suit. You know - the proper one, not the one without sleeves that’s an indecency complaint waiting to happen.”

Aramis looks from one to the other, clearly picking up on some basic facts lurking amongst the banter. Athos feels severely tempted to kick Porthos’ ankle under the table.

“Uhm, if this is about it being too hot for suits today,” Aramis starts, biting his lip, and GOD Athos is going to KILL Porthos - “I … I have something … for that.”

Athos’ brain freezes, which is a little miracle of its own considering the temperature.

“I beg your pardon?” he says slowly, utterly unable to make sense of Aramis’ words. “You have what?” He looks at Porthos for help, but Porthos just shrugs, pouting in obvious confusion.

“Don’t look at me, I have no idea if he’s got Doctor Horrible’s Freeze Ray or what.”

Aramis is blushing now, and ducking his head, and smiling a little helplessly, and Athos might just not survive this morning.

“Aramis,” he says, very gently. “What did you do?”

Aramis mumbles something incomprehensible.

Athos is going to slide off his chair and weep in desperation any second now.

“You made him what?” Porthos asks, clearly better at understanding mumbled gibberish. Must be the result of working with children for so long.

“Not just him, actually,” Aramis says mysteriously. “Both of you.”

“What?” Athos asks, continuing to float on a little raft for one, all alone at sea. He needs more coffee. Definitely more coffee.

Aramis blushes a little more, and clears his throat. “I made you suits. Linen ones. With matching shirts. Because I know how Athos hates to be too hot, and I thought there might be days like this - you know, with all the rich people inviting you to things - and I didn’t want Porthos to feel left out, so I made him one too, because I still had both your measurements anyway, and -”

At this point Athos stops the rambling by grabbing Aramis and kissing him square on the mouth, to Porthos’ obvious and quite outspoken satisfaction.

“Very well done, both of you,” he comments, buttering his toast. “Sometimes I really think we should put up cameras all over the place so we can look at these moments later.”

“Commit it to memory and take lots of ginkgo,” Athos advises him before brushing another kiss to Aramis’ lips. “I will pay you for the fabric,” he says, kissing Aramis yet again when he tries to object. “Your work and dedication are gift enough, Aramis. I do not wish to exploit your kindness.”

“And I don’t wish to exploit yours,” Aramis replies, looking unusually determined. “You’ve given me so much already - and you really need to get better at receiving gifts.”

“He’s right, you do,” Porthos says, refilling Athos’ cup of coffee. “Am I allowed to pay you back for the fabric, kitten?”

“No, you are not,” Aramis bristles, obviously prepared to stand his ground.

“Alright, just askin’,” Porthos smiles, getting up to pull Aramis from Athos’ arms so he can bestow some kisses of his own. “Thank you, darlin’. That was very thoughtful of you.”

Aramis looks deliciously pleased. “You haven’t even seen the suits yet.”

“I’m sure they’re wonderful,” Porthos says, sinking back into his chair. “Your work always is. Just the other day Charon had to beg Flea not to go out shopping in her fairy costume.”

Aramis giggles and resumes eating as if nothing had happened, while Athos suddenly feels somewhat out of his depth. It’s true, they _haven’t_ seen the suits yet, but Athos knows that they’ll fit perfectly, will accentuate whatever Aramis deems their best features, both in colour and cut. They’ll be a dream.

Aramis is a dream.

Yet here Athos sits, unshaven and unkempt, actually daring to feel annoyed by the weather. Unbelievable.

“If you try it on after breakfast, I can make some minor adjustments before we go out, if necessary,” Aramis tells him, to the effect that Athos’ heart does something painfully cumulative inside his chest.

“I love you,” he blurts, and Aramis freezes in the process of reaching out for another roll.

Across the table, Porthos’ face expresses a startling level of delight.

“I love you, too,” Aramis says, eyes shy and filled with joy. “Quite a lot actually.”

“Urgh, my _heart_ ,” Porthos grunts, getting up with his right hand pressed to his chest. “If I faint in the pantry, call an ambulance.”

He has to fight his way past Howard and Tom, who enact him the Tragedy of the Starving Kittens, and returns with a glass of Athos’ favourite brand of blueberry jam. “There. A token of my affection.”

“Must you add to my happiness?” Athos drawls, unable to find a more befitting outlet for his emotions, and Porthos winks at him, infuriatingly understanding.

“Always.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Damn you look good.”

Porthos is leaning in the doorway to Athos’ sun-bathed room, arms crossed in front of his chest, grinning all over his face. “Your Mom’s gonna ask Aramis for his hand in marriage.”

“Certainly not,” Athos grunts, because if someone’s going to ask Aramis for his hand, it will be him. Porthos. _Them_.

“Still,” Porthos insists, because he usually does. “You look delicious. All smooth and lickable. Will you be alright with him runnin’ around like that all afternoon, kitten?”

Aramis’ cheeks take on that tell-tale rosy glow, and Athos lifts a hand to his freshly trimmed beard, smoothes it a little nervously.

“I should be,” Aramis says, a guilty lilt to his voice, and Athos focusses on his reflection in the mirror instead of the unfamiliar warmth in his stomach. It seems that he’s flattered by Aramis wanting him. _Flattered_.

Athos is not quite sure what to make of that. Other people’s desire - when directed at him - used to make him uncomfortable. In most cases it still would, Athos assumes. Just not with Aramis … and Porthos.

The suit Aramis made him is dark brown and narrowly pinstriped, with a nipped waist - both on the jacket and the matching vest. Aramis made him a _vest_. He was also the one who trimmed Athos’ beard earlier, which is an experience Athos wants to repeat as soon as possible.

The shirt and breast pocket handkerchief accompanying his ensemble are of a warm, creamy colour, like the pinstripes on the suit, not quite white, because - according to Aramis - that would make him look too pale.

Aramis is wearing a colour Athos would describe as sandstone if anyone asked, with a blindingly white shirt underneath, not looking pale at all. It fits him just as perfectly as Athos’ suit fits him, no adjustments necessary.

Athos keeps wanting to run his fingers through Aramis’ hair, which might be related to the suit, but probably isn’t.

“You’re both very pretty,” Porthos comments from the door. “Even without the ties.”

Athos rolls his eyes and he can _feel_ Porthos grin behind him. “You’re gonna be more comfortable, trust me love.”

“I know that,” Athos sighs, “and I do. Trust you. It is just that the Baroness is very old-fashioned.”

“She’s usually the first to take off her fancy hat and use it as a fan,” Porthos reminds him. “And you’re not a little boy anymore, love. She can’t scold you for muddying your knickerbockers anymore.”

“I am not sure she is aware,” Athos drawls. He catches Aramis fiddling with his pocket handkerchief from the corner of his eye and fixes it for him, allows himself the pleasure of finally running his fingers through Aramis’ hair. “You look perfect. As I do, if we trust Porthos’ verdict - thank you, Aramis.”

Porthos takes about a million pictures of their pose, and Aramis blushes again, dips his head and smiles at a spot somewhere at their feet. “You’re welcome.”

It would probably kill Athos not to kiss him then.

Aramis goes gratifyingly soft as soon as Athos’ lips brush against his. He makes a helpless little noise, opening his mouth for Athos, and Athos feels his face pull into a smile, can’t but take the invitation, gentle and appreciative.

Another million pictures later they pull apart, and Athos takes a step back, looks at Aramis’ face, eyes closed and smiling, so happy that it hurts Athos a little to see it. “Are we ready then?”

“Not before I get some kisses as well,” Porthos pouts, leaving them no other option but to gratify him immediately.

 

The tea party will take place at the d’Avon country seat, in the peach salon with the adjoining terrace, overlooking the gardens. The drive out to the house takes them not quite two hours, but in a well-ventilated car, and with Aramis by his side, that isn’t precisely a hardship.

Now that they’ve climbed up the sloping staircase and are standing in front of the big entrance door Aramis is notably nervous once more, so Athos takes his hand and lifts it up to his lips, brushes a kiss over his knuckles. “I am right here with you, Aramis. You are not alone.”

“I’m just so nervous to see your Dad again,” Aramis breathes, causing Athos’ chest to constrict in a burst of sudden overwhelming affection. “I don’t even know why!”

“Well, he will be delighted to see you,” Athos says, not even trying to mask the warmth in his voice and expression. “As will everyone else.”

Aramis takes a deep breath, and then he nods, gives Athos’ hand a final firm squeeze before he lets go of it. “Alright. I’m ready. You can ring the bell.”

So Athos rings the bell, and the door is opened by a young man in old-fashioned livery, who bows them inside and leads them to the peach salon with robotic efficiency.

“Okay, that was mildly disturbing,” Aramis whispers into his ear, while Athos places a protective hand on the small of his back as they enter the room side by side. “Your Mom’s servants weren’t half as bad at Christmas.”

“She does not drill them to the point of draining them of all their character,” Athos murmurs back, ere he pulls his face into a polite smile he doesn’t have to work all that hard for to achieve. “Baroness - thank you so much for your invitation. I had almost given up hope.”

The Baroness d’Avon is a tall, lanky woman with no apparent sense of fashion and an utter disregard for everyone’s time table but her own. She also presents something of an informal distant aunt to Athos. He’s played hide and seek in her extensive gardens as a child … continued to do so as a teenager, although it had turned almost exclusively to hiding by then.

“Athos, my dear boy, you look gorgeous,” the Baroness says, which is not something she usually notices. “Did something happen?”

Next to him, Aramis twitches, and Athos doesn’t bother to keep the grin out of the corners of his mouth. “Yes, indeed. Allow me introduce you to Aramis. Aramis, this is the Baroness d’Avon.”

“How charming,” the Baroness says, as Aramis bows over her hand like a costume movie hero, evidently already smitten. Then she scans the space behind them, frowns when she doesn’t detect Porthos.

Athos gently clears his throat. “Aramis is my partner.”

That certainly gets her attention. She freezes for a moment, clever grey eyes widening before they narrow, and eventually relax. “How very nice my dear. Excuse me while I go and kill your mother for not telling me to write two plusses on your invitation.”

She turns on the spot and vanishes out into the gardens, and Athos grabs two tall glasses of champagne off a passing tray, thanking the waiter as he does so. “Here,” he says to Aramis, handing him one of them. “Have a drink and brace yourself for a lot more of that.”

Aramis empties his glass in one go and then takes a deep breath. “We should have expected something like that, I guess.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees. “I wonder if Porthos did this on purpose to remind them all how much they like him.”

“Well, if they need a reminder it serves them right,” Aramis breathes, suddenly looking surprisingly amused.

Athos suspects him of already being at least a little bit tipsy.


	4. Chapter 4

“Dear Lord, Aramis - how did you do that?”

Athos’ mother sounds equal parts delighted and disbelieving, and Athos cannot help but lift his brow at her. “I was not aware that my usual manner of dressing myself was so very repugnant to you.”

They’re having this little family meeting out on the terrace, under the sun, fenced in by greenery and long side tables with refreshments, and Athos feels equal parts comfortable and well-ventilated in his new suit. Apparently his mother finds it difficult to handle him under these circumstances.

“Oh shush, darling,” she says, which is basically her way of telling him to shut the fuck up. “You have to admit that this is far and beyond your usual standard.”

“All I did was trim his beard for him,” Aramis smiles, still delightfully relaxed after that one glass of champagne. He’s taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and Athos has followed his good example, even if he has no hope of ever looking as effortlessly handsome as Aramis.

“He should do that more often,” Thomas whispers into Athos’ ear, probably relating to the beard-trimming, not the rolled-up sleeves; although Aramis should do that more often as well. Especially in combination with a vest.

“I agree,” Athos murmurs back.

Thomas grins at him. “You liked it, did you?”

“What are you boys whispering about?”

Athos’ father has finally managed to disengage himself from the Baron, a rather portly gentleman with the tendency to run on like a pug on a treadmill - breathless but merrily.

“Athos was just confiding to me how much he enjoyed Aramis trimming his beard,” Thomas blabs, and their father smiles.

“I can imagine that he did. Your mother occasionally does it for me - if I ask very nicely.”

He looks over at Aramis, who is describing Porthos’ yet unseen suit to a very appreciative Evangeline, and then looks at Athos from the corner of his eye. “If I were you I would take him on a tour of the gardens before the rest of the company discovers him and demands his whole life story.”

Athos clears his throat. “Tea is about to be served, father.”

“Perfect. This way your mother and I can relate the most important information, while you enjoy your date.”

Athos blinks at him, and Thomas huffs. “I can’t remember you ever being this supportive of my relationships.”

“Please do not be nonsensical,” their father drawls. “You were fourteen when you started dating. Of course we weren’t supportive of you taking them into the gardens to be _alone_ together.”

Athos blinks once more, and Thomas elbows him in the rips. “ _Go_. Ravish him behind the lilac bushes or whatever you feel like doing before Father starts to sound even more like the talking candlestick from Beauty and the Beast.”

“Thank you,” Athos snorts, finally finding his voice. “I shall do my very best.”

 

“This is beautiful,” Aramis says five minutes later.

They’re strolling down a shady path between blooming hedges and palisades, peaceful and fragrant, while Athos fights a silent battle with himself. He wants to take Aramis’ hand, but doesn’t know if it’s too warm for that kind of PDA.

The last time he tried holding hands with someone in public it was a sweaty, uncomfortable affair, and he never really recovered. Aramis makes everything so easy, most of the time, makes everything feel right and natural and wonderful, yet for some reason Athos still manages to overthink.

He’s aware. That he overthinks. He just has no idea how to stop it.

“The Baroness is very proud of her gardens,” he says, looking down at Aramis’ hand, skin looking impossibly warm and tan. “She’s won some prize or other ten years ago and has been plaguing her poor gardener ever since.”

He takes Aramis’ hand and gives it a squeeze, feels his heart flip-flop inside his chest when Aramis directs a happy little smile at the ground.

“As much as I pity her gardener, the result is clearly worth it.”

“You haven’t even seen the fountain yet,” Athos says, pulling him along. “The proper one I mean - not the one on the terrace.”

They walk along their shady path for a while longer, and eventually exit onto an impossibly green stretch of grass, surrounding the promised fountain, shooting sparkling jets of water up into the hot afternoon air.

“This brings back fond memories,” Aramis says, looking up at the highest point of the water fountain.

Athos smiles. “Do you regret not having him here?”

“I enjoy being with you too much for regrets,” Aramis replies, his voice even and earnest, not nervous at all. It’s such a simple declaration, so warm and uncomplicated that Athos can’t help but lean in for a kiss.

Aramis is smiling when he pulls back, sighs and opens one eye to blink at Athos through his lashes. “I imagined this event to be rather … different, you know.”

“Different how?” Athos asks. “More pompous?”

“That too,” Aramis nods, stepping a little closer, until they’re almost chest to chest. “I thought it would be a more official event … stiffer.”

“Ah, no - the Baroness only invites friends and family to her tea parties,” Athos smiles. “I should probably have told you beforehand.”

“Yes,” Aramis agrees. “You should have. Still - this is nice.”

“I am glad you think so,” Athos murmurs, finding himself staring at Aramis’ lips. “We should probably go back soon. Brave everyone’s curiosity.”

Aramis is the one to lean in this time, slow and careful, giving Athos the time to pull back should he want to. Athos doesn’t want to, even when he probably should. Because this is all wrong. It’s too hot, Porthos isn’t with him, he’s shed actual tears in this garden for his apparent inability to interest himself in anyone … and yet it’s perfect.

Aramis’ lips are warm and soft against his, the breeze carries the finest mist of water with it as it passes them, and Porthos would probably take at least two dozen pictures if he could see them now.

Athos is aware how very lucky he is.

Aramis is biting his bottom lip when he breaks the kiss, looking flushed and a little embarrassed. “Sorry - I didn’t mean to stall.”

“No reason to be sorry,” Athos smiles at him. “I have instructions to ravish you behind the lilac bushes anyway.”

Aramis chuckles and blushes a little bit more, hooks a finger behind the top-most button of Athos’ shirt. “Is that right?”

He sounds happy and flirtatious, and Athos can’t but lean in and brush his lips to the hollow of his throat. “It is a very tempting idea, but I think I would rather introduce you to the hob-nobs now. So they know to adjust their invitations once the season takes off properly.”

“Mhm, yes, that is a good idea,” Aramis murmurs, lifting his hands to card his fingers through Athos’ hair, keeping him in place. “We should definitely do that.”


	5. Chapter 5

When they finally return to the terrace, Athos feels flushed, and Aramis’ mouth looks decidedly used. It cannot be helped that their appearance induces some unwanted attention, and Athos sighs when he spots Gregory de Clancy sidling closer to their spot beside the fountain.

To call de Clancy a bully would be something of an overstatement. The man is merely too nosey and lacking in empathy to consider anything but his own entertainment. He’s also married to the Baroness’ niece, so he has been an annoying addition to Athos’ life for the last ten years.

Athos ignores him for the time it takes to pour himself and Aramis a cup of tea, but when he straightens and hands Aramis his cup de Clancy takes that as his cue. “How do you do, Athos - I almost didn’t recognize you there without your sidekick.”

His gaze travels over Aramis in an assessing way Athos doesn’t appreciate at all, but at least his manners induce him to offer Aramis his hand. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Gregory de Clancy.”

“Aramis d’Herblay,” Aramis responds, his own gaze just as assessing as de Clancy’s.

Athos imagines that he can see Aramis grimace, just the tiniest little bit, because de Clancy is wearing a bright yellow spotted necktie that makes him look both sallow and ridiculous.

“Yes, so I was told,” de Clancy laughs. “Athos’ family acted very mysterious when I asked them anything else - almost makes one hope for a dirty secret.”

Aramis looks taken aback for a moment, then stares at the ground. De Clancy basically chomps at the bit. “Is there a dirty secret? What happened to Porthos? Where is he?”

“He is with the baby,” Athos says, savouring every syllable.

When Aramis looks up at him to make eye contact, Athos winks at him, and moves closer to his side.

“Baby?” de Clancy asks, stupefied. “What baby?”

“Little Jasmine,” Athos pretends to clarify. “She was named after Porthos’ mother.”

Next to him Aramis lets slip a giggle, and Athos brushes their shoulders together.

De Clancy looks amazed beyond the capacity for rational thought. “What, did Porthos go and get himself a girlfriend? When did that happen?”

“Not a girlfriend - a friend of the family,” Athos says, delighting in the confused tilt to de Clancy’s eyebrows. “He would never leave Aramis.”

A bird chirps very enthusiastically in the utter silence that follows.

“Hang on,” de Clancy says then, visibly fighting for clarity. “Are you telling me that Aramis is _Porthos’_ boyfriend?”

Athos lifts his chin. “Certainly.”

“But you introduced him as your partner!”

“That too, yes.”

De Clancy opens and closes his mouth, his sallow cheeks gaining colour by the second. Athos smiles at him, all courtesy, and turns when a wail from the other end of the terrace interrupts their stalemate.

It seems that little Inés has fallen and scraped her knees, torn her frilly summer dress, and dropped her ice cream all in one go. Her parents are nowhere in sight, which doesn’t precisely surprise Athos. Maria Martín is pregnant again and has probably retreated into the house to get out of the heat.

Before he knows what’s going on Aramis has crossed the distance to the little girl and is offering her his handkerchief. She looks at him with huge black eyes, visibly reluctant to accept anything from a stranger, and demands her parents in a voice threatening a flood of tears - in Spanish.

Aramis smiles and answers in kind, still holding out his handkerchief to her. When she hears him speak Spanish she sits up straight, all pain and ruined ice cream forgotten, and fires off a sequence of questions Athos probably couldn’t even follow if his mastery of the language was more than rudimentary.

But whatever Athos’ limits, Aramis laughs and pulls her to her feet, answering her questions as fast as she can get them out. He walks her over to the fountain, dips his handkerchief in the water to wipe her hands and knees clean, and eventually inspects her torn dress.

“I can fix that for you, if you like.”

She nods delightedly and he crouches in front of her, producing another handkerchief that serves him as a pincushion from the inside of his vest pocket.

Athos joins them at this point, and crouches down as well. “You are well prepared.”

Inés ignores him in favour of inspecting Aramis’ needle collection.

“Symptom of the trade,” Aramis murmurs, choosing the right needle and thread colour, while Inés watches with wide appreciative eyes.

Athos is aware that the whole terrace is watching the proceedings, and he’d love to tell Aramis that he’s most certainly won every female heart of the company now - probably most of the grandfathers and fathers as well. Only de Clancy still looks apoplectic, but Athos can’t really blame him. He’d meant to give him an aneurism after all.

Athos would love to tell Aramis, but he doesn’t, because Aramis is wielding a sharp instrument close to a little girl’s skin, and he knows his boyfriend rather well by now. He can make Aramis blush later, when they’re alone together.

“There, all done,” Aramis says once the tear in Inés’ dress is nothing more but a bad memory. “Shall we go and find your parents now?”

“No, I want to stay with you,” she decides, looking Athos up and down. “Do you really have a Kitten Amusement Park?”

Athos laughs. “Not yet.”

She looks rather disappointed.

“I do have kittens though,” Athos offers. “Three of them.”

“Show me!” she demands, a fierce little queen with bloody knees, and Athos promptly takes out his phone and gives her a slide show.

 

“I don’t know why you had to tell de Clancy of all people,” Evangeline harrumphs at him later in the peach salon. “You know what an insufferable rattle he is.”

“Precisely,” Athos drawls, watching Aramis converse with Maria Martín over her shoulder while Inés plays at their feet. “This way I will have to say very little while he goes around and spreads the news for me. Everyone worth their salt will merely demand confirmation from me, which I am more than ready to give.”

“Really?” she asks. “More than ready? Because I could swear you snapped at Louisa just now.”

“Louisa is a racist shrew, and I would have liked to strangle her on the spot,” Athos smiles, forcing the words through his clenched teeth.

Evangeline goes rigid. “What did she say?”

“I won’t repeat it, and merely ask you to scratch her of your party invitations list for all eternity.”

“Done,” Evangeline promises. “I didn’t know Aramis spoke Spanish by the way. I must admit it made me go rather warm.”

“You are forgiven,” Athos smirks at her. “It is such a hot day after all.”

“Just don’t tell your brother.”

“Whyever would I do that.”

“Don’t tell me what?” Thomas inquires, joining them from the left. “What happened?”

“Louisa is off our list of acceptable snobs,” Evangeline informs him. “Athos won’t tell me what she said, but it was apparently both shrewish and racist.”

Thomas rolls his eyes so hard Athos fears for his sight for a moment. “Of course it was. First she had to watch you play hanky with Porthos for all these years and now you bring a handsome Spaniard into our midst.”

“I have never played hanky with anyone in my life,” Athos states, scrounging his brows.

Evangeline laughs at him. “I rather doubt that.”

“It is still no excuse for her to act the way she did,” Athos grumbles, smiling at his mother when she steps up beside him - until he realizes she’s frowning at him. “What?”

“Next time you find yourself in a relationship with two other men, please let me handle your public relations,” she sighs. “Edith is furious with me for not telling her sooner, and that idiot de Clancy would have gone around telling everyone who wants to hear that you stole your best friend’s boyfriend had I not taken him severely to task.”

Athos smiles and leans in to brush a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you.”

She huffs and pets his hair. “Insufferable. Why did you have to tell him that nonsense about Porthos having a baby? The next time the poor boy has to face these vultures -”

Athos clears his throat, and she looks at him rather sharply. “Athos de la Fère, what are you not telling me?”

She sounds forbidding enough that Athos suddenly has the attention of all the family, which is something he never particularly enjoyed. Maybe he should have told them sooner. But then again they weren’t precisely his news to tell.


	6. Chapter 6

“Bertie, get over here,” the Countess orders briskly. “Our son has something to tell us.”

Athos watches his father disengage exceptionally smoothly from his current circle and shoots a desperate look towards Aramis on the couch. Aramis promptly excuses himself and gets up, links his arm with Athos’ as he joins them in the middle of the salon. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know yet,” Athos’ mother says tersely. “Apparently the two of you are keeping secrets about my Porthos.”

Thomas snorts and hides behind his wife’s shoulder when his mother glares at him, while Aramis suddenly smiles with the brightness of a little child at Christmas. “Oh, Athos - may I tell them?”

He’s too endearing to be refused. Too endearing by far.

“Yes, of course,” Athos murmurs, giving Aramis’ arm an affectionate squeeze. “Go ahead.”

So Aramis tells the story of how they met Elodie, how her water broke when she was just about to leave their apartment, and how Porthos went with her into the delivery room to be his usual supportive, amazing self.

“He’s with little Jasmine right now,” Aramis concludes his story, eyes shining with happiness. “Elodie wants him to be the godfather.”

“Pictures, right now!” Evangeline orders, amazement adding a certain force to her voice - then she thumps Athos’ shoulder. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us! My girls are going to go bonkers.”

“It was not my story to tell!” Athos justifies himself, rubbing the sore spot on his arm. “It still isn’t!”

“I’m going to kill Porthos next time I see him,” Thomas mumbles, staring over his wife’s shoulder as she flips through the picture gallery of little Jasmine on Aramis’ phone. “Dear Lord, she’s _adorable_.”

“She’s such a happy ball of sunshine,” Aramis informs Athos’ family, grinning fondly. “Rarely ever cries.”

Evangeline sighs and hands Aramis’ phone over to her mother in law. “No wonder he’d rather be with her today.”

“Can we meet her?” Athos’ mother asks, her attention on the phone. “Elodie I mean. I feel that we should.”

“I shall ask her,” Athos says carefully. He can only imagine what an independent woman like Elodie might have to say about this idea.

His father has been notably silent throughout the whole revelation, and when Athos turns his head to check on him, it turns out that he himself is under close observation.

“What?” he asks quietly, taking a step back to stand shoulder to shoulder with his father, while Aramis lets go of his arm to show the Countess an especially adorable picture of Porthos looking at the baby. “Did I do something?”

“Your best friend and partner went ahead and acquired a baby for himself,” his father replies softly. “I am merely wondering how you feel about that.”

Athos looks at him for a long moment, startled by his father’s odd choice of words. “Porthos has been handling little children for years,” he says eventually. “Am I supposed to have any qualms about this one?”

His reply appears to amuse his father, for he grins and winks at him, puts a hand on Athos’ mistreated shoulder to give it a firm squeeze. “That’s good then.”

Athos can’t say that he’s any closer to a revelation, but as long as his father is happy, he’s not going to complain. He steps forward to reclaim Aramis’ arm, and gently pulls him away from the fawning family, abandoning Aramis’ phone to their nosiness.

A balmy afternoon is turning into a golden evening outside on the terrace, and although they do not manage to leave the peach salon without anyone being the wiser, they are allowed to slip outside unmolested.

The fountain is still bubbling busily, with the setting sun playing over the water in golden swirls, and Athos feels so safe and warm in this moment that he doesn’t hesitate to take Aramis’ hand into his. “Thank you for today.”

“You’re welcome,” Aramis whispers back, smiling and looking right into his eyes, neither shy nor blushing for once.

It leaves Athos feeling rather overwhelmed.

“You are enjoying yourself, yes?” he manages to get out, trying to come to terms with the fluttering sensation low in his stomach. It’s not fear, not even related to it, yet he can taste his heartbeat in his throat.

He has no idea if being in love is supposed to feel like this, but he can’t claim he doesn’t like it. It’s rather pleasant, actually. Athos loves that Aramis fits in so well with his family - that he’s just as comfortable in this setting as Porthos always was, despite his initial nerves.

Aramis is like an exceptionally bright puzzle piece, his crazy lines fitting in with the rest of them so perfectly that Athos marvels at how they were able to live so contentedly before they met him.

“Everyone has been very nice,” Aramis says, stepping a little closer, reaching out to take Athos’ free hand as well. “Inés has promised to invite me to her next birthday party.”

“Has her mother told you how shy she usually is?” Athos asks, doing his damned best to contain his need to kiss Aramis senseless.

“Yes,” Aramis smiles, looking rather pleased with himself. “I think she’s afraid of making a mistake when she speaks to strangers in English.”

“Your Spanish is very good,” Athos blurts, the memory of hearing Aramis speak it sufficient to send warm shivers down his back. “I had no idea you were fluent.”

“My grandmother on my father’s side would’ve skinned me alive if I hadn’t learned it,” Aramis confesses with a little shrug. “She’s very proud of her roots.”

“And rightly so,” Athos says, swallowing with difficulty. “They have resulted in quite irresistible blooms.”

Aramis blinks, deciphering the compliment, and then he tips forward, pauses with just a breath left between Athos’ lips and his own. “May I?”

“Please,” Athos whispers back.

He feels dizzy when Aramis stops kissing him, almost surprised to discover that he’s buried his fingers in Aramis’ hair, breathless and impatient to be alone with him. To be with Porthos.

“I think we should take our leave soon,” he whispers, brushing his lips over Aramis’ cheek, trying and failing to calm his heart rate. “We have given the assembled company enough of a show.”

“I think your mother took pictures,” Aramis whispers back, his voice sending warm vibrations through Athos’ chest.

“Of course she did,” Athos drawls. “She’ll have sent them to Porthos by now.”

 

When they get home there’s a baby carriage in the hallway outside their apartment. So they tiptoe inside, no idea if the baby is asleep or awake. They get rid of their shoes by the wardrobe next to the door, pet the kittens who’ve come to welcome them, and round the corner to the living room.

Elodie gets up from the sofa as soon as she sees them, putting her book to the side, but Porthos remains where he is. Porthos remains where he is, because he’s asleep in the big leather armchair, head tipped forward and cheek smushed against Jasmine’s head who’s blissfully asleep in his arms as well.

Aramis makes a grab for his own chest, not just overcome by the adorableness of the scene but groping for his phone to immortalize it forever.

“I know,” Elodie whispers furiously, nodding at Athos and moving to stand by his side to gaze down at Porthos. “They’ve been like this for an hour. I have no idea how I’ve survived this long.”

Porthos stirs when he hears her voice, and opens bleary eyes to blink at them - smiles when he recognizes the source of the disturbance. “Eh, you’re home early.”

“Desperate to get back to you,” Athos drawls, allowing to let his eyes convey the simple truth.

Porthos grins at him. “I missed you too, love.”

Jasmine makes a displeased noise against his chest and awakens with a little shriek of sudden, unfathomable hunger. Elodie takes Porthos’ place in the armchair and feeds her offspring while Porthos joins Athos and Aramis on the sofa. They regale Porthos with the story of how they spent their afternoon, and Elodie only looks up from her suckling daughter when Athos clears his throat and imparts his mother’s request.

“Your mother?” she echoes, looking from one to the other. “Why would she have any interest in me?”

“Porthos is part of the family,” Athos explains gently, allowing Santiago to jump up into his lap. “So are you now, in a way.”

“O _kay_ ,” Elodie says, scrunching her nose. “Let me think about it, yeah?”

“Of course,” Athos nods smiling back as reassuringly as he can. “Feel free to say no if the idea makes you uncomfortable.”

Next to him Porthos is going through the messages he missed while he was asleep, and makes a pleased noise as he discovers the one from Athos’ mother, picture of his boyfriends kissing firmly attached. “Will you look at that. You look like a pair of romance novel heroes.”

“Please,” Athos drawls. “If someone is in danger of losing his shirt on the cover of a bodice ripper it is you, not us.”

Elodie giggles and then clears her throat. “I am trying to feed an infant here.”

But her daughter appears to be satisfied for the moment, so she cleans up, buttons her blouse and straightens. “Alrighty boys, I’m going to leave. You look like you’re desperate for some sort of naughtiness, and I miss my bed. Have a good night.”

She’s ready to go a few minutes later, baby safely stowed away in her carriage, and allows Porthos to kiss both her and Jasmine goodnight before she vanishes into the elevator.

Once the doors have closed behind her Athos is indeed rather desperate for some sort of naughtiness, and since he has a pair of gorgeous boyfriends at his disposal, he doesn’t remain desperate for long.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm as always eternally grateful to those interested enough in this series to leave me such lovely plot bunnies as [the one](http://uenaina.tumblr.com/post/144134139139/bunny-i-just-cant-keep-away-athos-gets-invited) that inspired this installment.


End file.
